The Fashion Police (10 page)

10

The alarm clock jolted me awake at seven-thirty a.m. after finally falling asleep around six. My eyes felt like I’d been staring into a sandstorm all night, and I was sure someone was banging a drum kit in my head.

I rolled out of bed, head clutched in my hands, and headed straight for the painkillers in the kitchen drawer. Fumbling the bottle open, I shook out several, downed some water, and swallowed, but the stupid pills got stuck in my throat.

My eyes watered as I coughed loudly, clutching the sink for dear life and trying to breathe at the same time. That didn’t work, so I had a full-scale panic attack, gasping for breath, thrusting my torso back and forth as my throat made scary gurgling sounds. Just as I was having visions about trying to do a self-inflicted Heimlich maneuver, the pills dislodged themselves from my throat and propelled out of my mouth, landing in the sink.

I wiped at my streaming eyes and struggled to suck in as much air as possible. The bad news was that my throat felt like I’d swallowed a piece of sandpaper, and the drum kit had been joined by a couple of cymbals clanging around. The good news was that I was still alive.

Always a glutton for punishment, I tried another couple of painkillers with my cup of coffee and managed to get them down the hatch with no more problems. I took the success as a good sign, because today I was determined to catch the elusive Clark, and I knew I’d need all the luck I could get.

I rummaged around in my wardrobe, deciding what to wear. After the bad start to my morning, I decided today was definitely a black day. I pulled on a black T-shirt, black combats, and tamed my bad-hair-day curly waves into a black scrunchie.

****

I had just parked outside Clark’s house when I noticed the Purple People Eater in my rearview mirror, pulling up behind me. I groaned and scooted down in my seat, hoping that would suddenly make me invisible. Strangely, it didn’t seem to work because within moments, Tia tapped on my window. 

I yanked open the door and climbed out.

‘Awesome! We’re twins.’ Tia grinned at my clothes. She also happened to be having a black day, and we were wearing almost exactly the same thing. However, her trousers were tailored and expensive looking, and her T-shirt was a Fandango classic. Mine were off the rack.

I folded my arms and tilted my head. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I thought I’d help you look for clues.’

‘I’m working on something else. You have to go now.’

‘Well, maybe I can help you, and then we can get finished quicker.’

I narrowed my eyes at her. ‘Tia, there is no “we”.’

Tia’s mouth moved, but I’d stopped listening. I was too busy watching a big, round woman storm down Clark’s path, heading straight toward us. Actually, big and round was being quite polite. Each boob must’ve weighed about five stone.

‘I hope you’ve come to fix it this time.’ She scowled at us.

‘Pardon?’ I said.

‘I recognize that uniform, it’s what the other useless man was wearing the last time he came,’ she said.

‘What man?’ Tia asked.

I glared at Tia, a silent order for her to be quiet.

‘The washing machine repair man. You’ve come to fix it, haven’t you?’ Mrs. Clark asked us.

‘Yes.’ I grinned, hoping this was my opportunity to catch Clark doing a spot of DIY inside, or even better, weightlifting.

‘No,’ Tia said at the same time.

I shot Tia another warning look.

‘Well you’d better do it properly this time. I’ve got five kids, you know, I can’t do without a washing machine,’ she screeched in my ear. ‘Come on then. What are you waiting for?’ She turned around and waddled back up the path.

‘I’m just going to get my tools,’ I said, opening the boot and reaching for a small toolbox I had in there.

‘What are we going to do?’ Tia’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t know how to fix a washing machine,’ she whispered.

I shrugged. ‘Neither do I. Just keep your mouth shut and don’t speak.’

‘Yes, but–’

‘You’re speaking!’ I made my way up Clark’s path.

‘It’s in here.’ Mrs. Clark led us into the kitchen, piled high with laundry.

I gawped at it. You could hardly move in the tightly packed room. ‘How long’s it been since it stopped working?’

‘A week. You’ve got to fix it today.’

I didn’t have this much laundry in a year, let alone a week. ‘Well, what seems to be the matter with it?’

‘It doesn’t work. That’s what the matter is.’

‘Where’s your husband? Can’t he fix it?’ I asked, fishing for information.

‘That useless idiot. He said he was going to the launderette, but I think he’s probably down the bookies.’

Damn, no Clark. ‘Maybe he’s popped into work to do a bit of overtime, so he can buy you a new washing machine. What sort of hours does he work?’ Hint, hint.

Mrs. Clark shrugged. ‘I don’t know, he doesn’t tell me. We’re supposed to be getting a big insurance payout soon. He told me I can get a top of the line washing machine then.’

‘Oh, really?’ I faked ignorance. ‘That sounds handy. What’s sort of payout?’

‘Oh he pre–’ She slapped a hand over her mouth. ‘I’m not supposed to talk about it in case someone comes to investigate him.’

‘Ooh, it’s a good job we’re just plain old washing machine repair people then,’ Tia said, getting into the role, sounding like she actually believed she was.

I gave her a silencing glare. ‘Well, what did the other repair man say?’ I asked her. Maybe I’d get a bit of a clue, so I could fix it and make a speedy getaway seeing as Clark wasn’t here.

‘He said it was the dongle sprocket or something.’ She frowned.

I nodded my head. ‘Right. Yes, the er…dongle sprocket is a bit temperamental on these models.’ I pulled a screwdriver and wrench out of my toolbox to get in keeping with my part and placed them on top of the kitchen work top.

‘Well, get on with it then. I’ve got about forty loads to catch up with.’ She stood watching me.

Tia scratched her head.

I turned the socket on at the wall switch and an LED light came on the washer. ‘That’s good.’

‘What is?’ Tia asked me.

‘The electric’s working,’ I said.

‘I know it’s working. Fix the dongle!’ Mrs. Clark’s sigh was loud enough to hear in Outer Mongolia.

I pressed the start button on the washing machine. It made a chugging noise and then died.

‘It’s quite technical, isn’t it?’ Tia gazed at the machine in awe.

I suspected she’d never had to use one in her life.

I pressed it again a few times. A light flickered on the front panel and then faded away. ‘Hmm.’

‘Is that bad?’ Mrs. Clark asked me.

I pursed my lips together in concentration. ‘Could be.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Mrs. Clark collapsed onto a nearby chair, rocking back and forth. ‘I can’t cope with this. I NEED MY WASHING MACHINE! Promise me you’ll fix it.’

‘Oh, you poor thing. It must be really hard having five kids.’ Tia put an arm around her. ‘Shall I make you some tea?’

Mrs. Clark stared at the washing machine with a blank face, nodding at Tia’s offer. 

‘I think she’s in shock,’ Tia whispered to me as she made Mrs. Clark  some tea and spooned in about ten sugars while I dragged the machine out from underneath the worktop.

‘Maybe your filters are blocked.’ I unscrewed the water pipes from the mains tap. ‘Oops,’ I said as water gushed out of the pipes. I glanced over my shoulder at Mrs. Clark, who looked like she was about to have a coronary on the spot. ‘Where’s the shutoff?’

‘Under there.’ She pointed to the sink.

Tia rushed to grab a bundle of dirty laundry, and pressed it onto the main pipe to stench the flow while I located the shutoff and turned off the water.

‘Phew, that was close.’ I looked at the filters. ‘Nope, these look clean.’ I opened the front panel and noticed a stray wire hanging out. ‘Ah, looks like this could be the problem. Where’s my screw driver gone?’

‘Here it is. It must’ve fallen off the worktop.’ Tia grabbed it from the now wet floor and poked it into the wire. Instantly, we heard a loud bang as the wire caught fire. ‘Uh-oh.’

‘Oh, God.’ I grabbed Mrs. Clark’s tea and threw it at the washer’s electrical panel. The fire sizzled and went out, leaving the stench of burned plastic and tea in the air.  For a moment, we all just gaped at the washer.

‘You’ve blown it up.’ Mrs. Clark stared at it in frozen horror.

‘Sorry about that,’ I said.

‘But…you’ve blown it up.’

‘You’ll have to ring up the customer service line and get someone else to come out. It’s definitely faulty.’ I grabbed the toolbox and Tia’s arm, and dragged her out the door. ‘I told you not to speak, let alone blow things up,’ I ground out as we rushed down the path.

‘It wasn’t my fault.’

‘Whose fault was it then?’ I yanked open my car door and got in.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Starbucks. I need caffeine.’ I slammed the door and whizzed off with Tia close behind me. I didn’t even want to think about what Brad would say when I told him about the washing machine. 

****

‘I can’t believe you did that,’ I said to Tia in between mouthfuls of roasted vegetable sandwich and cappuccino. I looked past her out the window, wishing I could crawl back into bed with an ice pack on my throbbing head.

‘Well, technically it was the screwdriver that did it,’ she said.

‘If you were really psychic, you would’ve known that was going to happen.’

‘I am really psychic, Amber. How else would I know you’re going to get three phone calls in a minute?’ She glanced at my phone, which was sitting on the table between us.

I snorted with disbelief. And then my phone rang.

A shiver danced up my spine as I answered it.

‘Hey, Miss Piggy, when am I going to get my insurance money?’ Callum Bates said.

‘Sorry, there’s no one of that name here,’ I said.

‘Oh, sorry, I meant Miss Porky.’ His laugh cackled over the connection.

‘La-la-la-la! I can’t hear you.’ I hung up.  ‘That was weird,’ I said. Then just as I threw my phone in my rucksack, it rang again.

‘Hello?’ I answered, looking at Tia, who had a knowing grin plastered to her face.

‘Hi, Amber, can you pick me up a pair of brown stilettos in size nine while you’re in the town? The outfit I’m wearing doesn’t really go with the ones I’ve got.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Dad, are you sure you want stilettos?’ Even I couldn’t walk in them, never mind Dad.

‘Yes. My disguise has to look authentic if I’m going to fool people. I can’t wear size nine hiking boots with a skirt. It would look too obvious.’

‘Good point. That would be a dead give away. What about wedges then? They’re much more comfortable.’